How Peter Pan Grew Up
by KartheyM
Summary: "...On the shelf before you stands a book, haughtily maintaining that the boy-who-would-always-remain-a-boy actually managed to grow up. It almost feels like your own childhood has been stolen, doesn't it? Yes, it's true; I, Margaret, I did it. I made Peter grow up. And I am sorry for it. Please read this story with an understanding heart, and forgive me." (A "Bridge" story)
1. Where She Lives and How They Met

_I know this must come as a shock to you. You might have seen the movie, some years back, and thought, "But it couldn't be possible!" I saw it too; I would say that Moira and Peter both looked better than the couple on-screen, but I can't fault the moviemakers for trying; it's an aunt's prerogative to believe that her own family is better looking than some paid actors. At least they got Neverland nearly right... I wonder if any of them had been there as a child—I'm sorry, I'm babbling, aren't I? Where was I? Oh yes:  
Now on the shelf before you stands a book, haughtily maintaining that the boy-who-would-always-remain-a-boy actually managed to grow up. It almost feels like your own childhood has been stolen, doesn't it?  
Yes, it's true; I, Margaret, I did it. I made Peter grow up. And I am sorry for it. Please read this story with an understanding heart, and forgive me._

**1. Where Margaret Lives And When They Met**

My story begins in a little house on Waterford Road in Fulham, southwest London. It was tall, and narrow, but a pleasant dwelling. I lived there with my mother, Wendy, and my father, Edward. I never understood why Mother always called Father "Tuttles," or something like that, and she would get a faraway look in her eye, and go stand by the window and look into the sky. I would come and wonder what she was doing, but by then the look was gone, and she always hugged me close and said, "Just remembering the fallen leaves of yesteryear, my dear."

Mother said I was a very level-headed child from the start. I never had any use for her stories of pirates and mermaids and fairy dust. Mother would talk on and on in all seriousness, but everything was a heap of babble to me.

After a time, I noticed my Mother would watch me carefully. She was always coming into my room and checking to see that the window was unlatched, no matter what the night weather was like. When I asked her why she unlatched the window, she only said, "So that you can open it easily if you want a soft night breeze, my dear. Your sister always used to have it that way when this was her room." She meant my sister Jane, who was a teenager away at boarding school since I could remember.

Once, an autumn gust blew the window open and let several leaves inside. I showed them to Mother the next morning and begged to bar my window the next night. She immediately snatched the leaves from my hand and peered at them closely, as if they held some message. Finally she sighed.

"They aren't his," she said in that same airy voice she got sometimes.

"Whose, Mother?" I asked.

Mother laughed and cast the leaves aside. "Why, Peter Pan's, of course!" she said.

I frowned, "Why would he track leaves everywhere and make the house dirty? Seems a pretty rude little boy if you ask me! Besides, Mother, my room is on the second floor. How on earth would the little boy from your dream stories get to the second-floor window?"

As soon as the question left my mouth, practical though it was, I saw my mother's face change again. She peered at me keenly as she answered, "He can fly, Maggie. Can you believe that?"

"Of course not," I answered quickly. "People can't fly; that's why there are airplanes." I did not understand how Mother could be so insensible.

"Peter isn't people," Mother tried to reason with me, but even I knew it wasn't reason at all.

"What else could he be?" I scoffed.

"A boy, that's all."

I shook my head and returned to my Erector set. I was trying to build a replica of Big Ben. "Boys can't fly either," I insisted.

Mother got to her feet and sighed. "You can, with happy thoughts and fairy dust. You're only a little older than I was when Peter first visited me; you'll see when he comes for you, dear."

I didn't say anything, but my heart always trembled at the thought of a strange boy using magic to sneak into my room at night. It didn't help that Mother described it as "coming for me," as if he were some hobgoblin sent to collect empty-headed ninny children. Well, I certainly was no ninny!

I liked real toys, blocks and puzzles and models and such. Mother had bought a few dolls, but I kept them in their store-bought dresses on their display stands. They were decoration, not to be played with. They did not have names, unless it was the likeness of a famous celebrity. I had real friends, not imaginary ones, and we talked about real things like jobs, money, shopping, and running a house. Mother didn't tell me bedtime stories; I would not let her. Daddy would go to the public library and get me books about history, biographies of great explorers and inventors.

I never once saw Peter all during my early years.

I was six when my sister Elizabeth was born. She was Mother's favorite, as much as I was Daddy's favorite. What made it even worse is that Lizzie was just as imaginative as Mother, so every night I had to sit and try to focus on the latest exploits of Joan of Arc or Edison, while Mother explained to Lizzie all about Peter Pan and Captain Hook and the fairies and the Redskins ("Indians!" I would persistently correct her), and the little ignoramus believed every word.

I will never forget the time she pounced on me at the crack of dawn.

"He's real! I saw him! Why didn't you wake up? He kicked you, you know, boom, right out of your bed, but you were still snoring, so I made him lift you back up."  
I pushed her away. She was six, what did she know? I slid my hand under the covers and felt my side. It was definitely tender, as if I had landed hard on something, and I knew it had not been so when I went to bed; but Peter Pan did not exist. How could I have been bruised by something that did not exist? Come to think of it, I could just be imagining the pain. I probably just slept wrong.

"Get off me," I grumbled to the starry-eyed baby quivering near the foot of my bed. "I don't want to hear about that dumb Peter Pan any more."

Five months later, in the spring, I turned thirteen, and in honor of my maturing from a girl to a young woman, Mother and Daddy let me have my own room. Finally, I wouldn't have to suffer through any more of the nonsense. I swore never to set foot in that room again.

Not long afterwards, I awoke and came down to breakfast to find both Daddy and Lizzie gone.

"Tootles has gone to a two-week conference for his job," Mother explained.

"What about Lizzie?" I demanded jealously. "Did Daddy take her with him, or is she away at Gramma Mary's?" Senile she may be, but Gramma Mary sure knew how to spoil a grandchild.

A queer sort of smile I didn't quite like played at the corner of Mother's lips.

"She'll be back in a week or so," she hinted to me.

Eight days later, she was. I could never quite figure out how it happened. There were never any bags, no trip to the train station or Heathrow to pick her up, no cab, no doorbell ringing or knocking. I merely went to bed, and the next morning, Lizzie comes wandering down to breakfast looking very tired but very satisfied all the same.

It happened again, several times a year, after that. One morning, Lizzie would be gone; the next week, she returned. Every time, Mother said the same thing.

"She's helping a friend with Spring Cleaning, dear," she tried to console me.

I was fifteen and detested her patronizing. "It's the dead of autumn! She never packs any bags, and why would she leave the window open when there's a chill setting in?"

Mother was not disturbed in the least; what did she care if her ten-year-old daughter was roaming the streets of London, barefoot and not a stitch of clothing more than her nightie?

"I'll see that she remembers to close the window next time," she told me.

But the next time didn't come, not for several seasons. Lizzie hated it. I heard her complaining to Mother, "You don't think he's forgotten me, like he forgot you, do you, Mother?"

"One can never be sure, my darling," Mother consoled her, "He is, after all, only a boy."

So! Lizzie was still having fantasies about Peter Pan; was Mother really allowing her to gallivant about the countryside in search of him, or had she hired a boy to take my sister away for a time just to maintain the ruse? I shuddered; suddenly "spring cleaning" took on a more sinister tone. Maybe this boy got too old—or maybe Lizzie was too old for him to continue the charade with impunity. At any rate, I took comfort in the knowledge that the house in Fulham would have no more of these absurd disappearances.

Little did I know how wrong I was.


	2. The First Conversation

After about a year or so, Lizzie seemed to forget about her anxiety over Peter Pan and his fairyland, and I am glad to say we became close friends. She would come into my room and we would discuss everything from fashion to schoolfellows, girls we didn't like, and boys we did. I did notice that the sorts of boys Lizzie found interesting closely resembled Mother's description of Peter Pan, but I held my tongue. She had successfully left that part of her childhood behind and was shaping up to be a strong, well-balanced young lady. No sense in dredging up a thing of the past that wasn't needed or wanted for the future.

I shall never forget the topic on one particular night. That night, I was nearly eighteen and getting ready to seriously date, and Lizzie was fast nearing thirteen. We were talking about Harry, a boy in Lizzie's class whom I had heard express interest in "the little blonde chick with the big round eyes and the dimples." Who else could it be but Lizzie? My sister, though, was not so sure what to think.

"I just don't know, Maggie!" she complained, fiddling with the quilt on my bed.

I could see the color spreading over her cheeks. I seized the moment.

"What more do you need to know?" I asked. "He likes you, Liz."

"He likes how I look," Lizzie corrected me. "We've never spoken."

"Then how is he supposed to have anything else to like?" I countered. "You need to talk to him, Lizzie."

She looked up at me, a brief moment of terror in her eyes. "Really, I do?"

I rolled my eyes. "Of course! You're smart and funny; if you don't talk to him he might just go on thinking you're cute, and next semester he'll fall for another girl. You've got to show him you're worth getting to know better, and that means talking to him." I grabbed her hand and held it tight as it trembled. "You can do this, Dizzy Lizzie. It's hard, but it's worth it. Dave and I would not be where we are today if I had not spoken with him. It's the selfish guys who only care about how a girl looks; real guys will care about how she thinks."

Lizzie smiled, leaned forward, and wrapped her arms around me. "Thank you," she said, and hopped off the bed.

"Good night!" I called, and Lizzie closed the door behind her. I turned off the light and lay down in bed.

My eyelids drooped, but it seemed only a few seconds before I awoke again with the sensation of being cold. I tried curling deeper under the covers, but a steady "whap-whap-whap" alerted me that something was out of place. I peeked out of my covers. Why, the window stood wide open! How had that happened? I groaned as I tumbled out of bed and across the room to close the window. When I turned to go back to bed, I was dimly aware there was something different about the shadows in the room. I climbed into bed, scanning every inch of the room as I did so.

"Hullo, Lizzie!"

I shrieked and dove under the covers as a small body dropped down from the ceiling and landed on the end of my bed! What scared me most, though, is that I knew exactly who it was. He was real! Mother and Lizzie were right!

"Lizzie," Peter Pan persisted, "It's spring cleaning, don't you remember?"

Oh, if only this was a dream! I pushed the covers slightly off my face. "Go away!" I told him, "I'm not Lizzie!"

"You aren't?" Suddenly he was hovering in the air over me, squinting at my face. He unceremoniously yanked the covers all the way off.

"Oh," he frowned, "You're the other one."

"Excuse me!" I sat up quickly, forcing him to retreat, and pulled the covers back up. "My name is Margaret."

By now, Peter had lost interest in me, and was poking and prying into the things around my room. I called him away from it, "Get over here," I pointed to the foot of my bed. Peter obeyed. I got my first look at the boy who caused so much trouble in my family.

He was about Lizzie's size, probably not much older than she was, either. His curly golden hair still had a light sheen of fairy dust over it. He had wide eyes, full of innocence, a round nose, and a perky little mouth. The longer I looked, the more I began to see that he might even have a smattering of freckles. He wore a tunic of some of the strangest leaves I ever saw, all sewn together, and a belt around his waist, from which hung a small pouch and a short dagger. His feet were bare and dirty.

I didn't much like his looks, much less the way he looked at me; altogether too cocky. I tried to get rid of him. "Lizzie is in the next room," I told him.

"Oh," Peter said again, returning to his inspection of the room. Now he had found the measuring stick I had used growing up, with my height marked every year on it. I saw the boy smirk as he traced over the markings below his height, but the smile faded as he reached the marks far above his head. He looked back at me, and I thought I saw a wistfulness in his face.

"Is it hard?" I asked.

"Is what hard?" he retorted, dropping the stick.

I took a deep breath. "Not growing up, ever; staying young, never getting any taller. I imagine it must be dreadful, especially coming here year after year, and finding that the little girl you knew from last time is all grown up, and now she has a little girl of her own."

Peter scowled, and I knew what he was thinking. That very thing had happened to Wendy, and he hadn't quite ever recovered from that.

"Don't wanna be taller," he asserted, "And I never want to grow up and go to school and work in an office."

"Oh, you are such a little boy!" I sighed, "School is not all boring, you know, and there's more to life than working in an office."

"Is there?" Peter ceased turning somersaults around the ceiling and dropped to the end of my bed.

"Of course!" I was warming up to my subject now, "There are parties and movies and dances, and school has science classes with dead frogs and robots, cooking classes with all sorts of delicious foods, and history—"

"History?" Peter wrinkled his nose in disgust.

"Oh, history is amazing, all the inventions and daring exploits and adventures!"

"I have adventures," Peter bragged, "Just yesterday I tracked a bear with the Redskins. They could not get very close, but I went right up to it and wrestled it down to the ground and stuck it with my knife, and I ripped its heart out. Hiya!" He had picked up a sham pillow to represent the bear, and to my dismay, he took the knife from his belt and gutted the pillow with it. When Peter saw my frown, he dropped the pillow. "Does History have those kinds of adventures?"

"Of course it does!" I was none too happy about the state of my pillow. "More, too. In our history, men discovered new lands, new plants and animals no one ever knew existed."

Peter was not too happy at being surpassed. He began rifling through the room again. He discovered a picture of me and another boy—Ritchie, I think his name was—and pushed it in my face.

"Who is that?"

"I don't know," I pushed it away; that had not been the relationship I thought it was, and Ritchie ended up jilting me with another girl. "I've forgotten; that was quite a long time ago."

Peter fell silent for several minutes. When he spoke again, his voice was much smaller.

"What's it like?"

"To be in love?"

_"No!"_ His reaction to that word was swift and vehement. "To...to forget," he said.

I shook my head, "I should think you know exactly what it feels like; you've forgotten things so many times in the sto—I mean, the past!"

"I don't forget them, though," Peter said, sitting with his back toward me, his shadow reclining on the bed behind him. "I remember them how I left them, and sometimes when I return and they have changed, and grown up, and they are so different and so terrible..." his voice broke off, but I knew better than to ask if he was crying.

I don't know what came over me then. It was a small voice, a little idea that said I could do the impossible: I could help Peter Pan grow up. If he only would, perhaps I could make him see all the things I was anticipating for my adult years. Maybe in trying to convince him I was really trying to squelch my own misgivings. I leaned forward and spoke softly.

"If you would forget about them," I told Peter, "then it would not have been as if they'd changed. Forgetting people and places means that it is the first time every time you meet them, and you're never disappointed."

Peter stayed very still for a long while, as my words took effect. I thought for sure he was thinking about what I said. Peter turned and looked straight into my eyes with a dull, blank stare as he said, "I don't believe you." And then he smiled. "Anyway, I forget everything, and I'm still a boy, so I must have the very best thing about growing up without having to grow up! Oh, clever me!" He flew about the room.

I was thoroughly disgusted at his duplicity and ignorance; whoever coined the term "innocents" for children obviously was himself innocent of their deliberateness.  
"What about feelings?" I tossed at him.

That brought him around. He immediately sank to the floor. He would not look at me.

"Feelings?" his whole body quivered. "I—I don't..." he could not finish. He whirled around to face me. "What about your feelings? I suppose you would say that growing up makes you forget about feelings, too?"

I nodded. "There are many times I have felt love, but as I get older, and change, my tastes change too, and I forget about old loves when I find new ones." I smiled as I saw the glimmer of understanding on his face. I continued, "I forget the ones who make me angry, too."

His gaze dropped. Just then, a bright ball of light zipped through the room, trailing a tail of glittering dust. Peter forgot about me and our whole conversation as he directed his attention to the light.

"Tink! We must get Lizzie!" he did not even look back as he leaped out the window.

I waited for a moment, then went after him to the window. I reached it just as Lizzie and Peter flew out of sight. I sighed and returned to bed.


	3. Peter Thinks

Lizzie received him happily, and to Peter Pan, absolutely nothing had changed. Even Neverland had the courtesy to freeze time in his absence, so that he could return to find everything and everyone exactly how he'd left them. No matter how long he stayed, the same people remained, doing the same things: the Redskins hunting animals or the Lost Boys, the Pirates tracking the Redskins, the Lost Boys sneaking after the pirates. Round and round the island they went, until one of them decided to turn and look behind him, and then there would be fighting and battles and general mayhem until everyone settled back into their routine again.

Peter allowed Lizzie to stay until she remembered that she must return home. They flew together to the open window, and Lizzie waved goodbye as Peter left the windowsill. He did not, however, return immediately straight to Neverland. Unbeknownst to Lizzie, Peter stayed behind and watched her. He saw her climb into bed, and turn out the light. Tinker Bell carried on beside him, but for once her persistent chatter, her girlish pranks of pulling his hair and pinching him did not deter him. Peter had begun to think.

Was it true that one could forget feelings? What was it like to forget because you've grown older, and not because you've stayed the same? He had always thought of learning as sitting stiffly in a stupid uniform reciting sums and spelling words while grown-ups beat you with sticks. Yet, to hear Maggie talk, learning sounded more like listening to Wendy tell stories after supper. School was just another session in the little hollow of Peter's last exploit. Was the world really as interesting as she tried to make it out to be?

Peter shook his head, and the flecks of fairy dust flickered. He left the tree on Waterford Avenue, but instead of flying back to Neverland, he found himself in Kensington Gardens. As he hid in the treetops, he observed the grown-ups (and those not quite grown up) down below.

Two girls sat on a bench, conversing.

"I have never been happier in my life!"

"Not even when you were with James?"

"Oh yes," the one said slowly, "James...I had forgotten about him. What lovely times we had!"

"I thought you hated each other!"

"Oh, but that was a long time ago; things are different now!"

Peter shook his head; grown-ups were strange. What was any good about change? Changes were always horrible! He shuddered and turned to leave with the adamant Tink—

"Rose!"

"Charlie!"

Peter paused in the tree as a young man and a young woman embraced each other.

"How long has it been?" Rose asked.

"You were only a small girl when last we saw each other," Charlie noted.

"Now look at the pair of us!" Rose laughed. "All grown up and respectable!"

"Aye," Charlie held Rose close and caressed her face. Peter watched the gesture with intrigue. Grown-up Wendy had done it once, when he first came and found Jane in Wendy's bed. He had been revolted by her touch, because she was a strange lady to him. Rose, however, closed her eyes and smiled.

"Rose," Charlie murmured, "Let's you and me grow old together. Let's never part again."

"Ooh, lovely!" Rose expressed her approval with a resounding kiss.  
Peter no longer considered the return trip he had to make. Here was something really foolish: two people who actually wanted to grow up, to change and age—together. He watched them go, Rose and Charlie, their clasped hands swinging as if the clock had suddenly turned back for them rather than continue its relentless march forward. Peter's heart stung at the sight of it, and this reminded him that he ought to return to Neverland already. The Second Star shone brightly in the sky as he flew away, leaving those silly grown-ups and forgetful children.

The next time Peter returned to bring Lizzie to Neverland again, he paused to make a face at my window. He was very angry with me, because the Lost Boys had said some very nasty things about him, when he talked of the little home under the ground needing more cleaning again.

"Peter," they told him, "You were gone a frightful long time last time. What happened?"

Peter had held his hands up dismissively. "I came back all right," he said.

"But," the one called Forks persisted, "you don't usually stay that long unless there's a story, and you never brought a story with you. Why not?"  
"There was a story," Peter burst at him, "a great big whopper that I heard. I stayed to see if it was true."  
"Was it?"  
"No."  
Peter's word was gospel in Neverland, but the Lost Boys who had been with Peter the longest could not help noticing for the first time that Peter was not the same. He had begun to change. They knew it, and gradually Peter became aware that they knew, so then he knew of it, too, and blamed me for it. This is why he was angry with me.

Lizzie didn't notice. She was too happy that he actually came. But for the first time, Peter Pan became aware of something he had never experienced before: the passage of time. He saw that Lizzie dressed differently than she had the last time he saw her.  
On the return trip, he finally mustered up the courage to ask her a question that had been nagging him the whole time.  
"I say, Lizzie," he began haltingly.  
"Yes?" she asked, landing lightly on the windowsill.  
"How old are you?" The words felt strange on his tongue. It was good that he had landed, for he was filled with so much dread at her answer that he would not have been able to fly.  
Lizzie sighed. "I am twelve, Peter."  
"And—and next time?" So much fear, he remained in the shadows so she would not see him tremble.  
"By this time next year I will be thirteen."  
"And the time after that, will you be... grown?"  
Lizzie now caught his mood, and tears began welling in her eyes. "I hope not!" she declared emphatically.  
Peter turned away and leaped to the window. "I need to go," he said abruptly, and thought of hunting bears with the Redskins before drifting away from the house on Waterford Road.

Still, once more, he found himself drifting toward the fairy gardens again. He sat for a long time. A man and a woman walked by him—grown up—and Peter heard the woman call the man Charles, and he called her Rose. So these were the two who wanted to be grown up, now they were. Peter grinned wickedly to see their miserable, bewildered faces at how such a thing could happen—but instead, he saw the same innocent joy they had displayed when he first saw them. They were grown up—but then again, they were not quite old yet!

At that moment, Peter understood. All of his nightmares of falling asleep as a little boy and waking up a grown man were simply not true. He sat in that tree and observed little boys, and young boys, and middle-age boys, and young men. The babies he had sighted before were still mostly babies.  
Peter frowned and absently whittled strange designs in the tree as he thought about how it had happened with Wendy and Jane. Did they not grow up all of a moment? And yet he knew that time, sporadic in Neverland, seemed to know its place in this world, and did not change its pace one bit.  
But if that were true...Peter shuddered to think how long he must have forgotten about them to let them grow up so.

From then on, Peter would spend more time in Kensington gardens every time he returned. He would seek out certain people like landmarks, to witness the passage of time for himself. He ignored the jibes of the Lost Boys about how much he was changing. Did they not know that he was not intending to grow up, that he was trying to solve a conundrum?  
Peter watched the people grow up. Seeing them change a little at a time did not revolt him as much as missing the interim process altogether. The more he observed, the more he began to regard it as a natural process.

As far as my sister was concerned, she was perfectly happy at the regularity of Peter's visits. Even mother seemed impressed that Peter would actually remember so frequently. Everyone waited for him to forget about spring-cleaning, but nobody considered that Peter did not keep returning to London because of Lizzie. I think that for the first time, Peter had actually noticed the alternate world whose people he had affected so much with his intrusions. Maybe he was even making new observations about his own world. Our next conversation confirmed the extent of my unwitting influence.


	4. The Second Conversation

SourceURL:file:/localhost/Users/Les2/Documents/Fin ished%20Things/How%20Peter%20Pan%20Grew%

To be perfectly honest, I had almost forgotten about Peter Pan. Not that I had forgotten he existed (rather difficult when you know he's the reason your sister disappears for long stretches of time), but I did not concern myself with him. David and I were now officially a "couple" at school, and neither of us were shy about considering life together in the future. Sure, we both had other friends, but no one near as like-minded about a serious relationship as we were. I really didn't give two pins for a little, futureless boy who most likely had forgotten my existence, compared to a successfully-made man who adored me and earned my respect.

I was just drifting off to sleep one night, a few years after the first conversation, when I jerked awake again under the distinct impression that someone had called my name.

"Margaret?"

My eyes flew open. These days most of my friends called me Meg or Maggie; the only ones to call me by my full name were my instructors at school or my parents' friends. What either of these would be doing in my bedroom in the dead of night, I did not want to know.  
I looked around the room. All seemed still—then I noticed the open window.

"Boo!" Peter Pan jumped up from the foot of my bed. I jumped and barely stifled a cry.  
"What are you doing?" I demanded of him. "Don't you know the difference between Lizzie's room and mine by now?"  
Peter only grinned at me. "Yes," he answered.  
I eyed him warily. "Then what are you doing here?"  
Peter shrugged and began floating lazy circles over my head. "Perhaps I wanted to talk some more."  
I could dimly remember snatches of our conversation. More than that, I was surprised he seemed to remember it very well. "Perhaps—" I began slowly, but he cut me off.  
"You're wrong, by the way," he came down to land on the end of my bed.  
"Wrong about what?" I was only slightly taken aback.  
"People don't forget; they don't change. At least, the grown-ups don't."  
"Yes, isn't it wonderful?" I countered; I did not much like to be wrong, so I learned over the years to make my case as persuasively as possible, whether I needed to or not. "Children go through a great growing time, and change tremendously, but once you grow up, there's not much that changes. You are who you are—"  
"And then what?" Peter snapped. I had a feeling all this talk of adulthood was unsettling him. "After you grow up, what happens? Where is Wendy anymore? Where is Jane? Where are the people who grew up, got white hair, and became kids again? What happens then?"  
"They...move on," I answered. To see him so perturbed at the aging process, I certainly did not want to have to deal with death. "All of life is moving on."  
"Yes," that distracted him for a while and he grew pensive again, "It's always moving. Sometimes you can't see it, but it's moving all the same. Even Lizzie—"  
He cast a glance toward the bedroom next door.  
"Yes?" I prompted him, "What about Liz?"  
He gave me a puzzled look, as if we were talking about two different people. "I watch her sometimes," he said. "She is not growing as fast as Jane or Wendy did."  
I nodded vigorously, "Oh yes she is! You just forgot about Mother and Jane for so long that it seemed they grew up quickly. That's how time works in this world."  
"That's the trouble with it, then," Peter lost his somberness and became cutting. "You grow up because you can't help it, and then you can't have any fun anymore."  
"That's not true!" I countered. "There are grown up ways to have fun!"  
"Like what?" He parried.  
"Like...dating!" I thought of David.  
Peter wrinkled his nose. "What's that?"  
"It is when two people like each other, and they want to spend time with each other. They have dinner together, they go to movies, they go to the theater or a symphony—"  
"Grown-ups do fun things at night?"  
"Of course; after the young children are asleep in their beds."  
Peter grinned, "Like me; I wait until everyone here is asleep before I come."  
I sighed, grateful that he understood. "Of course."  
Had I known what was really going on in his head, I probably would have regretted saying it. For I had spoken of that dolorous subject: love.  
When I spoke of people wanting to be together, Peter had instantly thought of Charles and Rose. But thinking of that couple reminded him of the one relationship he almost had, who fled his grasp in tears: Wendy. He'd wanted to spend all the time in Neverland with her, but she did not. What then? Did that mean she did not like him?  
"Sometimes..." he burst out, trying to sort his turbulent thoughts. "Sometimes it doesn't work that way."  
"What doesn't?"  
_Oh-ho!_ He thought. _She is going to make me say it, then.  
_ "Love."  
"What do you mean by that?"  
"I think I loved Wendy, and I wanted to date her, and spend time with her in Neverland, but she did not want it."  
I remembered this story, though not quite as Peter put it. According to Mother, he had grown angry with her for mentioning love and talking about feelings, for he considered them grown-up things.  
"That's because you did not understand love, Peter," I explained, "and neither did she. A child will think and want differently than a grown-up. A child only thinks of whether he is glad, mad, or sad. A grown-up knows that there are some things which have a mixture of a little bit of pain and a whole lot of pleasure, or some parts pleasure, some parts sacrifice, and some parts hard work to get ultimate pleasure. You were both afraid of love because you did not understand it."  
"So tell me," His bright eyes threw the challenge. "Explain to me what love is and I will understand it."  
I shook my head, "It's not that simple. You see, what a boy thinks he loves is not the same thing that a man loves. The same person may love dogs and think of nothing but dogs when he is young, but when he grows up, he will have moved on to horses or cars or something. A boy may not understand sports, and cannot know what he is missing until he grows up and learns of it. Then it becomes exciting and fascinating. A child will only consider his own activities as exciting. A grown-up learns to take pleasure in the activities of others. A boy," I slowed down to gauge Peter's reaction as I spoke, "may think that love is something terrible and ugly, but every grown-up knows the wonderful joy it brings."  
Peter bit his lip. I had scored. I said further, "People are meant to grow, Peter. There are things you only understand if you grow up. Once you understand them, the world is at your fingertips, and you can become all you were meant to be. You might even understand love."  
Unfortunately, it was too much. Peter drew away from me with a grimace. "You sound just like a grown up!" he cried. "Why?" He leaped from the bed and hovered at the window.  
"Peter," I begged him, "I didn't mean to ruin—"  
"But you did! You couldn't just leave things the way they were, you had to talk to me as if I didn't understand everything there was to know. I know enough to live happily!"  
"But is it enough?" I fought to make him understand. "You said yourself you did not understand time and love, the two most important parts of life."  
Peter set his mouth firmly. I could tell he was now frightened, but still very curious. He could not relinquish his pride. He flew away without another word.  
I jumped when someone knocked on my door. "Meg?" It was Liz. She poked her head in, "I thought I heard someone."  
I shook my head and lay back on the bed. "There was no one here, Liz. See you in the morning."  
"Okay, goodnight."

That was the last time we saw Peter for many years. Lizzie certainly never saw him again.  
I wonder if, had Peter known then that his next visit to London would be permanent, he would have returned at all?

It was the second week in September, and the autumn was fast setting in…


	5. Of Nieces And Orphans

Rosalee was just cataloguing a new shipment of spices when Nick walked in.

"Hey Nick," she greeted him with a smile, "What do you need?"

He had a firm determination in his eye. "I'm having this terrific headache and I think gedankewasser just might do the trick," he told her.

Rosalee's smile dropped. "Gedankewasser? Are you certain? How could you—Nick, when did these headaches start?"

"Just the other day," he answered. "I know where they're from, and I know the cure," the pressure was increasing now; he winced against the pain. "Just get it for me!"

"Nick, did Monroe recommend the gedankewasser?"

"Yeah, he said it was the antidote for something like this."

"Like what?"

"Like the influence of a—" somehow the word eluded his tongue, "of a...thing! A Wesen—you know. Argh!" He clutched his forehead.

"Here," Rosalee handed him a vial of an amber-colored liquid.

"What do I do with this?" Nick asked. "Pour it in my ears?"

"Your eyes, actually," Rosalee replied. "It's the quickest way to the brain. It doesn't kill the Bücherwurm, but it stuns it temporarily."

Nick obediently tilted the contents of the bottle into each eye. Rosalee slipped a tissue into his groping hand and he wiped the excess away.

"How does it feel now?" she asked.

Nick opened his eyes as the pain subsided. "Better," he answered. "So—you're telling me Monroe was wrong about the Kinderphantasie?"

Rosalee moved over to the shop library and began scanning books for the one holding the information she needed. "Not wrong—his understanding of the Wesen has been very much localized to Western Europe, though. _Kinderphantasie_ is the German name, but the creature originates from Arabia." She pointed to a page bearing an illustration of a creature very similar to what Nick had seen. The page was written entirely in Arabic.  
"Are you saying you can read that?" Nick's eyebrows shot up incredulously.

"A little," Rosalee admitted. "I mostly know what I've been taught by my parents.

"The creature's original name was _Dal'fih-Dal'alisand_—Silvertongue. The legend goes that they use silver-infused writing implements to control people and manipulate surroundings to their will."

"That sounds like the one I met—only her victims had to be infected first." He blinked, "So how was I infected?"

"You must have read something she wrote without realizing it," Rosalee determined. "The Silvertongues can transport their listeners into and out of the stories at will."

"She couldn't do that," Nick recalled, "she could only control their actions in the real world by directing their characters in the story." He recalled the eerie wedding, and how out-of-place everything had seemed.

"Maybe she had not matured yet. Can you remember her name now?"

Nick thought as hard as he could, but— "No," he answered, "not even her face. I remember what she did, but I don't remember her."

"That must mean she erased her name."

"Erased?"

"When a Silvertongue writes a person's name and erases it, all memory of that person temporarily disappears from the minds of the people connected to that person. It leaves a hole, of course, but no amount of trying can bring it back till the effect wears off."

"How am I going I know when I will remember?"

Rosalee shrugged, "It sounds like you're remembering most things about her. It might be wearing off already."

"Why doesn't the gedankewasser work? I thought it liquifies the Bücherwurm."

The Fuchsbau explained, "Gedankewasser is more of a preventative measure. Pour gedankewasser in the ear, and the worms cannot attach to the brain. Once they're attached, though, there's not much you can do except destroy the Silvertongue's writing implements. What you saw was more than likely just the excrement from the worm."  
"So how can I destroy whatever she's using to write when she's got Bücherwurms in my head?"

"I think I have just the thing." Rosalee disappeared into the back of the shop and emerged with a small bronze box.

"Scheherazade was a Silvertongue, and she had a sister, Dinarzade, whom she used to draw the Sultan into her stories and keep him under her influence."

Nick glanced warily at the box. "Did she already have her sister infected?"

Rosalee squinted at the pages again. "According to this account, Scheherazade kept her sister from caving by the use of an amulet. Her sister could counteract the effects on herself, while enhancing the effects on someone else."

Nick glanced at the box sitting on the counter. "And you have it."

Rosalee opened the box. Inside was a bronze amulet set with amber stones. Nick pulled it out and clamped it on his wrist.

"How does it work?" he asked.

Rosalee inspected the instructions. "The Protected One must wear the amulet and speak the words thus: '_Tell me more_.' This keeps the Protected One out of the Silvertongue's snare, and no peril will befall the Protected One."

Nick watched the bracelet carefully as he pronounced distinctly, "Tell me more."

Rosalee watched him give a sudden jerk, like a man who has just received an electric shock.

"What was that?" she cried in alarm.

Nick blinked and looked around as if aware of himself for the first time.

"I..." he choked, "I think—that did it."

"Did what?"

Nick grinned. "Rosalee, it works. Mariana can't control me now."

"Mariana—you remember her?" Rosalee asked.

Nick nodded. "I remember all right—and I'm ready to stop her once and for all." He slid the cuff of his sleeve over the amulet and turned to walk out of the spice shop.  
"Do you know where she is?" Rosalee called after him.

Nick pondered, "Well, the last I saw of her, she was headed to jail, so my guess is that somebody figured out how to get her out, and she's back for revenge—and she might have the key."

"What?" Rosalee's terror was so great that she woged before she could help herself.

Nick continued, "She won't be at any of the old haunts, because they were too small—" Nick paused briefly and smiled.

"Where else would she go?"

Nick looked at the Fuchsbau. "Where does one go to hear many stories, of all kinds?" He turned heel and left.  
Rosalee nodded; of all places, it would be paradise for a Silvertongue.

"The library," she answered the empty shop.

Nick took a deep breath as he entered the first set of doors at the Multnomah County Library.  
The atmosphere was deathly quiet when he entered the ground lobby. There didn't seem to be any patrons among the shelves. Two librarians stood at the checkout counter, going about their duties mechanically. Nick didn't doubt that Mariana had infected them.

"Mariana!" he yelled. "I'm here! Come out and face me!"

"Hush! No need to shout," her sultry voice echoed off the marble floors from among the shelves. "I'm right here."

Nick scanned the aisles between the shelves, trying to locate his quarry.

"Where are you?" he called again, backing around the end of a shelf.

"Here!" Mariana hissed in his ear, and Nick whipped around amid a shower of books.

Mariana crouched before him, her hands groping the books. She chuckled darkly. "Doesn't this remind you of when we first met?"

Nick had the distinct impression of being manipulated, and the woman before him totally in control. He focused on the metal amulet around his wrist to keep her out.

Mariana sensed his uncertainty and kept talking. "I was wondering when you'd find out about my escape; did you forget about me?"

Nick kept his gun trained on her as she stood with a book in her hand. "You're a fugitive, Mariana," he hissed at her.

"Not really," she responded. "You'll find no record of my internment in the Oregon prison records. I took great pains to erase myself when I left there, so of course no one would remember me. Of course, I never forgot about you, Nicky! Surely you thought about me maybe a few times over the last few months, haven't you?"

Nick strained against the soothing notes of her voice; silver-tongued, indeed.

"As a matter of fact," he answered, "No."

Mariana hid her frustration with a shrug. "Oh well; do you know, I've been writing the most thrilling romance. All about a cop and his fiancée who wake up one morning and find good luck and get everything they want—then the Wheel of Fate turns and they end up with nothing." She reached into her collar and pulled out Aunt Marie's key, still on it's chain. "Rather a wonderful tale, wouldn't you say? Too bad it's ending soon." Her eyes gleamed savagely. "The cop is about to get some very devastating news, which will tear him apart," she smirked, "limb from limb."

Nick tried to reach the key. "Very interesting, Mariana," he mused, hoping to distract her, "_tell me more_ of the story." His voice sounded strange near the end, as if someone else was speaking over him.

Mariana woged in surprise, her saucer-sized eyes blinking before she could calm down. "How did you—where did you hear those words?" she gasped. She frowned in disappointment. "Aww, why do you have to be such a spoilsport? Oh well, I'll just have to find some other way to get you. Meanwhile... Catch me if you can!"

Nick lunged for her, but she skipped just out of his reach and up the stairs.  
"Enough! This ends now!" he muttered.

Mariana planted her feet on the landing and opened the book. Nick glimpsed the title: _Robinson Crusoe_.  
"For once," she snarled, "I couldn't agree more." She turned the page and began to read.

"_We were not far from shore when a terrible storm descended upon us_..."

Above her head, around the ceiling of the library, Nick watched in horror as dark clouds formed and thunder rumbled.


	6. The Lost Boy

He sat on the bench, one foot propped next to him so that his chin rested on his knee, while the other leg dangled, swaying slightly. He seemed so out-of-place, a boy alone, with clothes obviously not meant for him, I could only assume he might be one of the orphans Mother looked after. I walked over to the bench and took a seat.

"Are you lost?" I asked.

The boy fiddled with the crease of his pants. He didn't look at me. "Perhaps I am," he retorted simply.

His complete lack of manners bespoke orphanage; but perhaps he had heard of Wendy and hoped to meet her there. I tried to be helpful. "Whom are you looking for?"

He began tracing the wrought-iron railings with his finger. "Myself." Finally, he raised his head slightly. From beneath the brim of his cap, strange eyes twinkled merrily. I watched his deft hands, his lackadaisical manner one could almost describe as _cocky_. Suddenly I gasped.

"Wha—" I forgot how to breathe. My world turned and tumbled before my eyes. "_Peter_?" I reached out and grabbed the bony shoulder through the cotton shirt he wore.

He smiled that old troublemaker grin, "Hello, Margaret," he said.  
I gulped, trying to get air to my whirling brain. I could neither see nor speak straight. "But I—How did you—What are you doing here?" I spluttered.

Peter shifted uncomfortably, "I don't know," he answered abruptly, "I was just leaving—"

"Why are you wearing clothes?" I did not mean to interrupt; the question asked itself, as far as I was concerned!

Peter surveyed the suit with almost a proud air. "I just wanted to see what they were like on," he admitted.

My maternal instincts took over, and I immediately demanded, "Did you steal them?" When he didn't answer, I chided him, "Peter, you shouldn't have!"

Peter sighed and did not say anything for a long while. He burst out, "Margaret, I know what it's like now."

I was not prepared for this announcement. "What's like?"

Peter frowned and stared off across the park. "It's like nothing I've ever felt, but it all seems so familiar." He shook his head, "It is the stupidest thing I've ever heard, but it makes so much sense!"

If I didn't know any better, I'd say he was sounding like Moira. "Peter," I struggled to understand, "what's happened?"

"I've been thinking," he mused slowly.

"Thinking?"

He shot me an annoyed glance. "Yes."

This was a side of Peter I never expected. I tried to think of the best way to proceed. "And… How did it feel?" I stammered.

"It—" Peter scowled and flicked his hand, "well, see here! I'm not different, am I?" He nailed me with his queer gaze.

I could only look on him with pity. "I hardly recognized you in those clothes," I admitted.

Peter's breath quickened, and his eyes darted around. "I had to speak with you; it couldn't wait till tonight."

Finally, I understood what made him so uncomfortable. I scooted closer to him. "Peter, is it—you aren't—" The question wouldn't come.

"What?" he demanded shortly.

I knew I had to choose my words carefully. "Well, all this talk about feelings and thinking..."

"What?" Peter snapped again. He looked straight at me and dared me to say what I was thinking.

I took the dare. The words came out in a rush. "You're finally growing up, aren't you?"  
His reaction was just as swift. "No! I just—" He stopped and slipped into the tree. I almost called after him, but then I saw why he had slipped away. Elizabeth had just entered the garden and was making her way toward me.

"Margaret, what are you doing out here alone?" my sister asked me.

I shrugged, "Just watching the people go by. It's nice to see you, Elizabeth."

Elizabeth smiled, "Thanks, you too; say, Moira and I were just leaving. Will we see you later?"

I nodded, "Yes, of course. I was planning a visit sometime next week."

"All right, see you then." My sister nodded and made her exit.

By the time I turned around, Peter had resumed his seat. "Peter, why are you here?" I asked.

He grimaced, as if he found the truth unbearable. "Because… I want to be!"

I didn't believe him for a moment. "You want to grow up?" I asked incredulously.

Peter shook his head, but the movement was half-hearted. "No, I—well..." he sighed and hung his head. "It's got to happen, doesn't it?" he conceded mournfully.

My heart went out to him, "For anyone but you, dear boy!" I cried.

He pressed his lips to check an emotion I did not understand. "But if I choose not to," he said slowly, in a near-whisper, "then I can't have her, can I?"

"Have whom?" I asked.

In reply, Peter looked over his shoulder at my sister and niece climbing into the car. I realized at that moment what I never saw before: Peter and Moira looked to be about the same age. I looked at the cherubic, wistful face beside me. Never would I have believed it. "Moira?" I gasped. "Peter, you've fallen for Moira!"  
The rueful smile he gave me was much too world-weary for someone like him. "It does feel a bit like falling, doesn't it?" He glanced at the departing vehicle, remembering its enchanting occupant. "She is my happy thought, but every time I fly, I can only think that I am going away from her, and—" his voice caught, and he turned away.

"That brings you down," I finished for him. My own hand trembled as I reached for his. "Peter," I said earnestly, "if she means that much to you—"

"She has kept me here longer than I have been for a very long time." His tone came accusatory, as if he was the victim of some great wrong. He sighed resignedly. "The Lost Boys will only make fun if I go back now, anyway." He frowned and self-consciously stroked his hair. "Do you think she will have me?" he mused.

"When you become a man?" It was cruel of me, but that was the way of the world. Grown-ups could decide to live together; children did not have the option. "There's no way to know for sure."

Peter did not appreciate my assertion. "So I must become a man first."

I rose up, so to speak, in defense of my society's mores. "Of course, Peter; it wouldn't do her any good to love someone who would always be a boy!" Thinking about it now, I realize my comment was a bit harsh, but I seized the opportunity to sermonize. I spoke to him as if he were my young nephew, and I his caring aunt, desiring that he would grow to fill his place among the adults of the world, or forfeit that thing he ostensibly desired. "A man must be willing to give things up for his family; a man must be able to provide for and protect his family. It's going to be very hard for you, Peter. In order to become this man, you've got to get used to the idea that you will never see Neverland again." I sat back, satisfied with a job well done. Either he would choose to stay and grow up for Moira's sake, or my straight-laced comments would drive him back to Neverland and out of her life.

Peter said nothing for a very long time. He sat and watched the squirrels and birds scurry through the light of the afternoon sun. I wondered if I had actually succeeded in silencing the unquenchable child. Presently he looked up at me, and the light in his eyes said plainly that he had discovered some inadvertent secret. "So that's how it happens," he remarked with a shake of his unruly head.

I failed to understand how his words had anything to do with mine. "What happens?" I asked.

Peter tipped his chin toward me. "Growing up; I never understood why children let themselves grow up after believing in Neverland. I thought they had lost faith; now I know it isn't belief they've lost. It's hope. You give up hope of ever seeing Neverland, whether you've been there or not, and on that day," He looked me dead in the eye with a profound gleam in his eye and accused, "you start to grow up." He sat back to watch me squirm.

I was shaken to the core; how could one so young speak so pointed and so plain? All these years I assumed that Peter would never amount to any good because there were so many things he staunchly ignored, yet here he was, postulating that I had no imagination in my life because I'd given up on it before it began! I stood rather abruptly.

Now I was the one unable to meet his gaze. "I've got to get home. It's late; find somewhere to sleep." I tried to deal with my shame by dispensing direction. "If you're ready to grow up, we'll start in the morning."

Peter's little-boy-mischievous nature surfaced as he grinned at me, "Shall I wake you?" he teased naughtily.

I answered him quickly, "Goodness, no! I shall meet you again at this bench." I gave him a look that said I meant earnest business, not foolish nonsense.

Peter shrugged one shoulder in his old, cocky way. "All right. Good night, Margaret."

I started walking briskly out of the park; I needed to calm down enough to receive David when he returned from work. "Goodnight, Peter," I replied, a bit stiffly over my shoulder.


	7. Peter Grows

The next morning, I found Peter waiting for me at the bench, and we began the process of growing up. Tinker Bell helped me at first, because Peter, though submitting himself to my knowledge, still preferred her opinion. As I explained things to him, I discovered that Moira was ample motivation to get him to do anything. I bought Peter some clothes of his own, schooled him in the basic maths and other bits of education expected of a child his age. Every week, I would send for Moira, and Peter would hide and watch with delight as my niece and I interacted. We decided to wait a few years before introducing him to the family. I spent those last years going over everything we had learned till I was satisfied he would remember all of it.

Finally, the day came. Before we left, Tinker Bell spent a few hours with Peter. What she said or did to him I'll never know, but he came with me that morning, complacent and silent. I sent Peter shuffling to the door of Waterford Place. He knocked and an energetic girl about his own age answered.

"I'm here to see Mrs.—Wendy," He said as per my instruction, though the prefix pained him.

"Whom shall I say is calling?" the girl asked, vigorously ushering him into the front hall and glancing at me.

"Peter," he answered, "Peter Pa—Peter…Banning." He avoided the shocked glance I gave him by asking the maid, "What's your name?"

"Oh!" she giggled and tossed her hand, "I'm only Liza, Mrs. Wendy's companion. I'll get her for you."

I had not left Peter alone since his education began; thus it came as a surprise (meaning I never knew it before) and yet not a shock that my mother would hire a companion. With Jane engaged as a schoolmistress, she was alone in the house, with more orphans to care for than ever.

I put all this aside to take advantage of our solitude and question Peter.

"Why did you change your name?" I asked him.

Peter shrugged, "Wendy knows the old name; if I'm going to be someone different, I need a different name." He offered no other explanation, so we sat in silence for the next few minutes.

We heard the steady thumping of a cane before Mother appeared in the doorway. It pained me to see the once-regal woman reduced to a wrinkled nanny with a decided slump in her back. I looked over to Peter—but he was standing with a strange, vacant expression on his face. He glanced around the room in awe, as if realizing where he was for the first time.

Mother smiled at me and held out her frail hand.  
"Maggie! How wonderful! Give us a squench, my love!" She inched forward to wrap her arms around me. From that position, she noticed Peter.

"Who is this?" she smiled invitingly at him.

Peter shrank away shyly. I assumed the position of escort. "Mother, this is Peter," I said, watching her carefully.

She smiled the same way she did for all new orphans. Then she asked a peculiar question.

"Where do you come from, Peter?"

I never heard her ask this of any other orphans; I wondered if she guessed.

Peter glanced at me, "I grew up on the streets," he explained, "mostly in the park."

I had to give Peter's imagination credit. He fielded Mother's questions with perfect grace, saying the first thing that came to mind in absolute certainty. Mother agreed to take him in, and I departed.

Over the years, she would write me letters telling how the Banning boy progressed: He studied hard, he showed great aptitude for debate and legal studies—and he almost never played games with the others. He preferred to keep to himself; while the other orphans relished the long stretches of playtime, Peter could be found among the dictionaries and encyclopediae in the schoolroom. When the others partied, Peter consorted with the grown-ups, talking away patiently on any subject. Also, it didn't take long for Wendy to notice that Peter would only loosen up and release his playful, awkward, boyish side when a certain visitor came to call.

"Peter has very evidently taken a liking to young Moira," Mother noted, "and I think I see not a little romance blossoming in her, as well. If Peter continues as he has been, he could very well become someone to make this family proud and Moira content with him."

I smiled; Peter was certainly making great progress!

A few times, I also received letters from him, mostly concerning the secret we shared.

"It was hard at first to forget about Neverland," he confessed, "but I like studying law and history, and it helps give me something else to think about instead. Don't worry about me, Margaret; soon I shall leave off thinking about Neverland completely, and then I shall be grown up and marry Moira. She likes me more than the other boys already. I only hope that I can manage to be the sort of man who can be her husband."

He was smitten all right; his heart and motives remained as pure as ever.

The letters came less frequently as time wore on. I wrote to Peter periodically, dispensing advice according to the updates I received from my mother. I sensed a maturing in Peter; he talked less and less of things that were currently happening in his own sphere, and more of things in other places he heard or read about. Most often, Peter would talk about the future. Then I knew I had succeeded. Peter Pan the boy would never dare mention the day after tomorrow; Peter Banning spoke of graduating from law school, bar exams, and of starting a family with Moira. This was the talk of a growing man; children did not care about their future, but it is when we begin to "look ahead," as it were, that we know growing up is indeed a possibility.

At last, I collected the mail one day and found an invitation to the wedding of Peter Banning and Moira Latham. Of course David and I went. We arrived in plenty of time to take our seats. The church looked splendid in the afternoon sun. A man in a sleek tuxedo spoke quickly and evenly into a cell phone. Dave and I stood at the door, waiting for the usher. The man began walking toward us. I heard him mutter, "Thank you, Mr. Selvers, you won't regret this." He clapped the phone shut and rudely stared at me long enough to make me squirm. His face broke into a grin, and I reached out and grabbed his arm with a gasp.

"Peter?" I cried.

He laughed, "Haven't I done a good job growing up, Margaret?"

I surveyed him proudly: tall, strong features, and an intense, driving expression. "Oh the cleverness of you," I murmured.

I cried like his mother when Peter and Moira exchanged vows. It was a beautiful service, and I overheard someone saying as the happy couple pulled away that they would be honeymooning in Europe, because Peter wanted to see the world. I imagined them taking their time, seeing the sights, and enjoying each other's company.

One week later, I received a letter from Elizabeth.

"Moira's back," she wrote, "Packing up the last of her things in great big boxes. Do you know, I was certain the honeymoon would last longer than this, but apparently Peter received a call from a prestigious law office in Cambridge, so he came back early to begin studying for the bar, to get his license. I rather think the bride comes before the bar, wouldn't you say?"

I set down the letter; honeymooning for a week? Normally, I would say that such a man had his priorities in exactly the wrong order, but this was Peter; for him, prioritizing his career was decidedly the grown-up thing to do. I did not doubt he had the capacity to be able to make up the shortened honeymoon to his wife. I even went so far as to write him a letter, affirming his choice.

Peter and Moira moved to Cambridge. The next time any of us saw them was when Mother, Lizzie, Jane and I made a trip out there to witness an important announcement several years later.


	8. The Last Visit

"It's a boy," Moira's eyes sparkled in spite of the lines of care already beginning to show on her face. She laid the little bundle on Mother's lap.  
Wendy's wrinkled, speckled hands caressed the child's full, pink cheeks.  
"We named him John Michael," Moira informed her grandmother, "Jack for short."  
Wendy glanced up at her granddaughter, her eyes glistening with tears as she heard the names of her dear departed brothers. She looked down at the baby, with his wide eyes and serious face.  
"Jack," she nodded her white head very seriously. She picked him up and held him against her shoulder, missing, I knew, the feel of baby's breath against her cheek. She smiled wistfully and glanced at Jane. "Why can they not remain this age for a while longer?" she mused.  
"It's the nature of time, mother," Jane sighed, "It changes us, makes us grow older. It happens to everybody," she glanced over her own transformed figure, admiring the classy outfits she was able to wear as an adult; they would look horribly wrong on a child.  
Wendy chuckled, "All except one, Janie," she corrected my sister.  
A tremor passed through my heart. So she remembered him, after all! What could I say or do now? Would she make the connection?

"Sorry I'm late!"  
Peter Banning strode into the room, a nearly-full-fledged lawyer. He crossed immediately and kissed his wife first, then greeted Wendy, Jane, Lizzie and finally me.  
Moira sighed at her husband, "What kept you this time?"  
Peter waved his hand nebulously, "Just a frat challenge among all the guys; I was one of the winners, of course."  
Again, I saw the lines in Moira's face. Peter didn't notice and kept right on talking.  
"Do you know, an American chap visited the university today. He was looking for one bright young student for an overseas internship." He grinned, "He seemed to like me a lot."  
Moira blinked, "America, Peter?"  
A harsh ringtone interrupted us. Peter scrambled for his pocket and waved his hand, "There's nothing on the table yet. He just arrived; he wants to observe the best students first." With that, he clapped his phone to his ear and left the room again.  
Jane shook her head, "Not even a glance at his new son!"  
"Oh," Moira rose to his defense, "He spent the last three days by my side, it was only since last night when he got the call from his professors about the American lawyer that he's been a bit distracted." She smiled in a longsuffering way.  
I saw my mother staring at me strangely. She continued through the evening, only taking her eyes off me to glance pensively across the table at Peter. After we ate, Mother convinced him to escort her to the front room so she could sit by the fireplace. He sat at her bidding. I stood in the hallway and watched them with bated breath. What was my mother doing?

Her reasons became clear very quickly.  
"How old are you, Peter?" she asked.  
I sighed; of course Peter wouldn't know his exact age; he and I had selected a birth date and procured a belated birth certificate, as the state periodically provided in special cases of orphan births, but surely he would not be comfortable with keeping track of his own age.  
It was several seconds of adding up years before he was able to answer, "I'm twenty-one years old, Wendy-Mother," he used the pet name given to her by the orphans.  
Wendy nodded. "Do you know where you come from?"  
Peter blinked, and I gasped. No doubt she had figured it out, and was trying to trip him up, or something of that nature. He answered in complete honesty, "I was born in London, and grew up there, on the streets."  
Wendy nodded again. "And do you know who you are?"  
She asked the question with such an intense tone that I held my breath, not daring to assume what might come next.  
Peter reacted instantly. He leaped to his feet, "Now see here, Lady!" he snapped, "I am Peter Banning, I am a man, and I'm going to become a lawyer and work in an office, like all grown-ups do!"  
Wendy must have seen something in his eyes, for she gasped, "Peter, it is you! I don't understand! How could this happen?"  
Peter scowled; all pretenses were useless now. "Isn't this what you wanted, Wendy?" he demanded cuttingly. "You were always asking me to stay, telling me how well I should look as a man; now I am one! I stayed—for Moira! I am a father now! Soon I will have a job! I am grown up, just like you and Jane and all the rest!"  
"What about Neverland?" Wendy asked softly, after a long pause.  
Peter's answer came swift and sharp as an arrow. "I don't know what you're talking about."  
Wendy grabbed his hand, "Peter, you've got to! The mermaids, the pirates…surely you haven't forgotten Captain Hook!"  
Peter sniffed, "_I… don't… remember… anything_," he replied coldly, but the words were forced. "I don't care about those things any more; I told you, I've grown!"  
Wendy dropped his hand, and folded hers neatly in her lap as she watched him closely.  
"You really aren't him," she mused slowly, "after all. It was my mistake; I am sorry."  
Peter muttered something and went out by another door. Mother remained, watching the fire. After several minutes, she called, "Margaret, come in here, please."  
Shamefaced, I entered the room.  
"How did you know I was there?" I asked, sitting in the seat so recently occupied by Peter.  
"A mother's intuition, dear," she replied, with a sad sort of amusement on her face. She let me fidget in silence for a moment. Then she began with a resounding, "So!" she looked me in the eye with the same expression she used when reprimanding me for being naughty. "You finally managed it, after all."  
I didn't like the way she was insinuating with her tone, as if I had set out to maliciously rob every childhood in the world of its innocence. I rose up in my defense (and Peter's, partly.)  
"I don't know why you're making it out to be all my fault. It's what he wanted; I just pointed him in the right direction to reach his goal and actualize his potential."  
"Oh, don't you serve that tripe to me, young lady!" Mother was stern, but not harsh; I do not believe my mother had the capacity for harshness. "You talk of pointing him in the direction of his potential when you know good and well you were the one stringing him along, telling him things to make him want what you thought he ought to have!"  
"Isn't a little maturity good for everyone?" I retorted, "You talk as if growing up is a horrible disease instead of a natural process!"  
"Natural? Margaret, this is _Peter_!"  
"What makes him so special? Neverland can find another ambassador to whisk imaginative, weak-minded children from their beds! Peter wanted to grow up, and it was high time he did! You should have seen him, Mother!" I tried to convince her to see my actions as I saw them: a noble effort by a woman whose husband was at the moment too busy for children.  
"That day in the park, when he first told me he wanted to grow up, he said that he did not want to go back to Neverland at all, for fear Moira would grow up without him!"  
"Margaret, my dear," Mother pleaded, in genuine distress over the matter, "why does this give you an excuse to meddle? And I know it did not start with Moira; he'd been to see you before, back when Lizzie did his spring cleaning."  
I felt my face burn, but part of me staunchly determined I had nothing whereof to be ashamed.  
Mother continued, "That is when it started, wasn't it? You talking to him about growing up, saying things that no child had ever told him before, and things he would never listen to a grown-up say. A lawyer, Margaret? Since when did Peter ever want anything like that? No, I know you put him up to it, telling him about all the money he could earn and the glamour of it all. You got him to stop thinking about all the wonderful things, and start thinking plain, ordinary things," she sighed shakily, "and now he's nothing but a plain, ordinary man!"  
"He's not plain!" I objected, "He'll turn out all right, mother, just wait and see! He'll become a great man, and do great things! Just you wait!" I stood up and frowned at my mother, "You can keep your memories, mother, but as long as Peter is in your house, I beg of you, _never _mention this to him again!" I swept out of the room in high dudgeon.

My mother waited for Peter; we all waited, but something that night seemed to shake Peter to his core, and he did not much appreciate the feeling. Baby Jack was only a few months old when the call came around for the Cambridge lawyers to relocate to America. Peter jumped on the next flight out of Heathrow. We saw very little of them after that. Moira would call from time to time, but family reunions were few and far between. For the next ten years, Peter systematically avoided Wendy and London altogether. According to Moira he was always working; the American firm loved him, and he was always getting promotions and raises which meant more hours in the office and more responsibilities to fill his time. When we offered to fly them all out for a holiday, Peter responded that, no thank you, he didn't much like flying or airplanes, and he was far too busy at work to take many vacations at all, and now if I wouldn't mind, he had an important client on the other line whom he did not want to miss.

Peter had grown up; what had I done? Tootles, Mother's first orphan, managed to outlive the rest. His mind was still as distressed as ever, and lately he'd only been able to think about one thing: his marbles. He asked about them constantly, but no one seemed to remember him having any marbles. Wendy took him in, supposedly to find a suitable home for him, but the rest of us knew that Tootles' home would always be Wendy's townhouse. I returned to life with Dave, but his own behavior served as a reminder of what I had done to Peter. I could only hope that someday I would get the chance to make things right.


	9. A Final Note

Margaret Van Morris never got that chance she wanted. A few years after moving to France with her husband due to a profitable promotion, Margaret passed away from complications after an unexpected series of strokes. Her sister Elizabeth Latham and her niece Moira Banning had the following conversation on the telephone soon afterwards.

"What do you mean? What happened to Aunt Margaret, mother? I was just thinking of bringing the kids for a visit."  
"She went to the hospital because she was short of breath, and the doctors say she had a number of small strokes that slowly wore her down until she passed away." Elizabeth paused. "You never told her about Maggie, did you?"  
"Well, I did send a letter saying it was a girl, but I was going to surprise her with the fact that we'd named her after Aunt Margaret when we visited, but now—"  
"Poor Meg! I always thought she was so happy with David; she of all people would have no reason to die of a broken heart! Speaking of broken hearts, Moira, how's Peter?"  
Moira sighed, "Oh, the same, as far as I can tell. Still hard at work all day every day. I thought maybe things would be different with Maggie than they were with Jack, but it's only more of the same. He goes places, but never without that stupid phone of his."  
"Hmm; maybe a visit to Gramma Wendy would put him to rights."  
"He won't go; he says he hates flying."  
"He flew you to New York, didn't he?"  
"Yes, but ever since Maggie was born, it's gotten to the point where I don't think I can get him into an airport."  
"You'll find a way, Moira."  
"I hope so, Mother."

From Margaret, to Peter, delivered after her death.

_"Peter, dear, if you're reading this, I'm sorry. I did not tell you everything. _

_I told you to find the boyish fun in your work, but I neglected to say that the fun and pleasure must come from you. _

_I told you that one of the greatest rewards of work is financial and corporate success; I did not tell you that the greatest reward in life would be the people you count as friends. _

_I told you that being in love would make you feel like time stood still. I did not tell you that a family would make you feel like you had no time at all, that you should and would need to make time for them. _

_Last, and most diabolical of all, I told you, Peter, that you would need to leave Neverland behind if you wanted to truly experience everything life had to offer you. In that, I think, I did not as much forget to mention something as I told you an outright lie, and it has cut you deeper than any iron claw, destroyed you more completely than Captain Hook ever dreamed could be possible. I robbed you of the one thing that made you unique, that which made you Peter Pan, the everlasting boy. I realize that now, but I fear it is too late. Peter Pan is dead, and I have killed him. In his place I have played a part in shaping a soulless shell of a man who calls himself Peter Banning and only lives to work harder and longer. Neverland could wither and die and no one would ever know but the fairies.  
Come back, Peter, come back! The stars pine for their only playmate; the night wind gusts about empty-handed. Who will tell the stories to the Lost Boys? Who will make peace with the Indians and carve his mark in the backs of the pirates? Who will see that the fairies may traverse safely back and forth from the glade to the lagoon? Come back! I'm sorry! Please forgive me,  
-Margaret Amelia Louisa Van Morris "Maggie"_


End file.
